


21 Gunshots, And Then You Rise From The Dead

by undeadpsycho13



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeadpsycho13/pseuds/undeadpsycho13
Summary: They let themselves get lost in dreams of hope, fly higher and higher into the skies with their wild imaginations.That only increased the height they fell from.That only made falling even more painful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a songfic, so I suppose I have to do another disclaimer *sigh*
> 
> Alright, so Green Day owns the song 21 Guns, not me **sigh**
> 
> Also, I did a LOT of research on military ranks and whatnot so you'd BETTER appreciate it. Feel free to tell me if I got anything wrong though ^_^

_Do you know what's worth fighting for?_

_When it's not worth dying for?_

 

There was no denying, military life was harsh.

From day one, from the day each and every one of them soldiers signed up for this life, or were forced into it, either way, every one of them knew what was in store for them.  Trained fighters.  Trained murders.  Trained to follow orders, never question, to kill, to kill, to kill; that’s what everyone else saw in them.  As far as the higher-ranking officers were concerned, they were like machines, to be commanded around with controls, as though in a videogame; they were to execute orders, to be the perfect little pawns, nothing more, nothing less.  As far as the civilians were concerned, they were nothing but murders who killed ruthlessly, destroyed everything in their path, laid ruin to crops and fields, who took away the few flickering lights from the already dystopian world; nothing more, nothing less.

No one saw them for who they actually were; just boys, boys who were forced here by hunger or desperation or God-knows-what.

None of them ever wanted this, none of them ever chose this path.

No one saw behind the scenes where they cried for the victims they killed, who had never done anything to them personally, who had probably been boys just like them before this goddamned war.  No one saw how they bad-mouthed the officers behind their backs like normal teenagers would do behind a teacher's, if only that was the situation.  

If only.

But it was just meant to be like this.

Just meant to be, even if, in the end, everyone suffered.

 

_Does it take your breath away,_

_And you feel yourself suffocating,_

_Does the pain weigh out the pride?_

 

Amongst these misunderstood soldiers, blamed by the commoners for all the governments misdoings and by the officers for all the civilians acts of defiance, there was also love.  Love, like that of brothers, and love, like that of lovers.

Some were fortunate; both survived.  Some were less fortunate; neither lived.  

But perhaps the worst combination was when one made it, and the other didn’t.

Two of such lovers were Minho Park and Isaac Newton.  They met amidst the chaos, and found solace with each other.  At least they had the privilege to do so once.  Others were not so lucky.

 

_And you look for a place to hide,_

_Did someone break your heart inside?_

_You're in ruins…_

 

With the death of one, the other fell alongside him.  This was often the case.  Or, at least, the lone griever wished they had.

The aforementioned lovers were naïve.  They thought nothing could tear them apart, nothing would happen to them, that they were untouched, unhurtable, divine.  They never stopped to think that Death wouldn’t care about who was in love and who wasn’t; Death took all, eventually.

They let themselves get lost in dreams of hope, fly higher and higher into the skies with their wild imaginations.

That only increased the height they fell from.

That only made falling even more painful.

 

_One, 21 Guns_

_Lay down your arms_

_Give up the fight_

_One, 21 Guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky_

_You and I…_

 

As soldiers it was their duty to answer the the every beck and call of the general.

It was not, however, in their job description to like it.

“Oh shuck it, why do we have to do this?”  A brunette moaned at the trooper next to him, Newt.

“Thomas, you slinthead, stop complaining and get on with it.”  The other boy hissed.  Despite both of them being pilots, they had been ordered to set up a bomb in the outskirts out nowhere, completely unrelated to what they had been trained for.

“No one’s even gonna come here.  These shucking landmines are for _nothing_ !  And it’s the middle of the _night_!  And I don’t even know how to do this properly!”  Ignoring Newt, Thomas kept on grumbling.

“Just shut up, you bloody whiner.”  Newt tried to tune him out best he could.  He turned towards the unfinished bomb, and then, all at once, the blood drained from his face.  

“Run! It’s gonna blow!”  Shoving Thomas out of the way, he stumbled away from the faulty landmine, the red indicator light on it flashing like crazy.  Then––

_Boom!_

It detonated, pieces of fiery shrapnel shooting outwards.  Pain screamed through Newt’s leg, and red blurred his vision.  He vaguely heard the sound of Thomas shouting into his earpiece for med jacks, but his mind was too fogged up with pain to fully comprehend the situation.

The last thing he saw before he completely blacked out was the stars in the sky, winking at him in greeting, beckoning, whispering _We’re here, we’re here, join us, come to us, leave the others forever_.

And he thought, _No_.

 

_When you're at the end of the road,_

_And you lost all sense of control._

 

As soldiers it was their duty to follow every order passed down by higher-ranking officers.

And yet sometimes, exceptions were made.

When he had heard what had happened to Newt, Minho was beyond hysterical.  He refused to stay out of the medical tent, and even when the commanding officer growled at him in warning, he stood his ground.  When the other finally realised it was a lost cause, he made the wiser decision and left, leaving only Minho and a comatose Newt alone in a room full of beeping monitors.

Beeping and flashing, like a bomb about to blow.

No, Minho refused, _refused_ to let these thoughts get to him, just as he was refusing to let the tears overflow.  In critical situations like this, he could not be weak.  

Minho works differently from others, and this makes him a good soldier.  On the battlefield, he is emotionless, can watch limbs explode in front of him without batting an eye, friends die in front of him without shedding a tear.  Minho builds a facade while in situations he cannot afford to be weak in, and this makes him a good soldier.  A good soldier, but hard for others to love, and therefore hard to fall in love.  But Newt, the brilliant blond-haired British pilot of the Air Force, managed to capture his heart anyways.

Managed to capture his heart, and shatter it with a single motion.

 

_And your thoughts have taken their toll,_

_When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul._

 

All through the night, Minho kept vigil next to Newt’s bed, thinking.

He thought about the first time he met the other.  It had been on a parachuting mission, where the Air Force and Army had joined together on this rare occasion.  It had been cold, Minho recalled, very cold, so that all of them were huddled together.  It had been –– what, three years ago now, back when they were fourteen? –– and Newt had been the co-pilot of their plane.  A novice only, barely eligible to fly a plane, just as Minho had been a novice, nervous on his first mission and practically shaking with fear.

“You’ll be fine,” His mentor had said coldly, un-reassuringly, as though he had memorized the lines a long time ago, then added, “Stop being a baby and get your act together, ya buggin’ slinthead.”

“Bloody inspiring.”  A voice had whispered next to his ear, softly.  When Minho had turned around, he was met by the face of an angel, a shucking fallen angel, blond curls hanging alluringly just above his collarbone, red lips slightly parted from the cold, large brown eyes flecked with bits of gold and framed with long, dark eyelashes, almost like a doll.  Minho had just stared, stared until the angel spoke again,

“What?  He did have a nice speech.  I wonder how many times he’s said that.  Probably to every poor shank that’s the misfortune to be taught by him.”

The angel had gotten Minho to laugh, actually laugh, the first time he had done so since… since… probably since his mother had died.  He had laughed, in spite of the circumstances, in spite of the cold, in spite of the pissed mentor breathing down his neck, he had laughed.

When he jumped from the plane with nothing but a folded parachute in his back, he thought nothing about the fall itself, only, _Shuck it, I didn’t ask for the angel’s name._

 

_Your faith walks on broken glass,_

_And the hangover doesn't pass._

 

Minho first learned the angels name about a year after that parachuting mission.  

Fifteen and still filled with hope that this shucked-up world still had a bright future, Minho had been wandering around the barracks with his friends.  They were a small group, Alby and Gally and Minho, and close-knit as well.  The three of them were the very definition of inseparable in their division, and did pretty much everything together, except, of course, if the officers ordered otherwise, which happened quite a lot, to be honest.  There were often filed complaints that the boys didn’t get enough work done, that they messed up the carefully set-up order in the army, and so on important missions none of them were ever in the same platoon, or rarely even the same company.  But on this day, seeing as they had no assignments, they walked together and caught up with the recent news.

Gally had been working with the Navy, and Alby with the Air Force, while Minho had been stuck on land.  Separated on purpose, as always.  They had been chatting just fine, when Alby suddenly came up with the brilliant idea to visit some of the new friend he made, to which Gally replied in a mock hurt voice, “Aww, you replaced us?  How could you, I think I can hear my heart’s breaking.”  Alby just gave him a playful shove and let out a good natured laugh, then proceeded to lead them towards the Air Force barracks, nicknamed the Glade for a reason Minho didn’t care to find out, to which the others begrudgingly followed.

The first thought that crossed Minho’s mind when he stepped into the building was, _Shuck, why are their quarters so much nicer?_  For one, there were only eight bunks on each side, lined up neatly against the wall, as opposed to their own thirty-odd bunk beds all crammed together.  There was even personal cabinets next to each one of the beds, and a washroom inside the facility, instead of outhouses by the back door.  When Alby had joked that he had wanted to stay with his Air Force friends, Minho had laughed at him.  Now, seeing this, Minho sort of understood the notion.

Of the eight, only about three quarters of them had people currently residing on the beds.  Luxurious facilities and _extra beds_.  This was unthinkable in the army.  Alby led them to the back of the room, where all the occupied bunks were, and hauled himself onto the top bunk of the one at the back left corner of the room, leaving Gally and Minho standing there, looking out of place and unsure of what to do.  

It was then that Minho spotted the angel, staring at him with those gold-flecked eyes and a small smile perched atop his face.

For a moment, no one broke the silence.  None of the others had noticed the two boring holes into each other with their eyes, none of the others had realised that the one boy who never smiled was _smiling_.  And then, an awkward wave and an abrupt, 

“Hi.”

It brought all the attention whirling around towards the two, who were still pretty much having a staring competition.  That is, until the golden-haired boy stuck out his hand and uttered confidently,

“Nice to meet ya, shank.  Welcome to the Glade, name’s Newt.”

And, embarrassingly enough, Minho’s automatic reply to that was,

“So the angel has a name.”

Newt, as well as the rest of the boys, looked shell-shocked for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Surprisingly, that’s how the two first introduced themselves.

 

_Nothing's ever built to last._

_You're in ruins…_

 

They kind of drifted towards each other after that.

Drifted closer and closer, until they touched.  Drifted closer and closer, until they touched, and then overlapped, and then melted into one, as though two candles put over a flame.  Their fates were tangled together, like the mess of vines that grew on the walls encircling the military barracks, almost suffocatingly.  It was not as though they were ever allowed out, besides on missions, and then they were _forced_ out.  

But then, they never had a choice.  It was always: board a plane, fly to wherever the shuck, complete whatever the officers told you to do, board the plane, unload, go back to your boring life.

Well, it had been a boring life, until Newt.

The Angel, for that became his nickname amongst the other boys thanks to Minho, made everything a little less dreary, a little more bright.  Sixteen and starting to realise that there they’re lives were too deep in klunk to ever be perfect again, most of the soldiers in their age group were starting to break down from the emotional strain.  Minho learned to shrink into a corner of himself while fighting, shut down all his senses and turn into a killing machine.  Sometimes, though, sometimes it was so hard to revert back to himself, to face the pale lifeless remains of what used to be his friends.  

Minho was sixteen when Alby was killed on the battlefront, brought back as nothing but a head hanging limply from a torso, all four limbs ripped off at the socket.  He was sixteen when he received the news that Gally’s entire platoon had been captured by the enemy, and was being held hostage, probably tortured for information.  He was sixteen when he first broke down at the memorial; never before had he known such emotional pain, not even with the death of his parents, whom he never knew well but loved anyways.  He was sixteen when the twenty one gunshots were fired in memory of his lost friend, and he had sunk against the wall near the Deadheads, where the lost were buried, where Nick and Jeff and Zart and Alby were buried, sixteen when Newt had found him there, curled up into a ball, his face ashen.  

Minho had only been sixteen when his life was ripped to shreds, and then built up again from its fiery ruins by an angel.

 

_One, 21 Guns_

_Lay down your arms_

_Give up the fight_

_One, 21 Guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky_

_You and I…_

 

The first year, the memorial ceremony had meant nothing to Minho.  Just a list of names called out, mournful song blaring through the speakers, twenty one shots fired in honor of the dead.

The second year in his military career, and already all of that had changed.

He had deceased friends to mourn for, could relate to the tearful speeches, could find meaning in the songs sung.  He, along with many others, had tears in their eyes during the burial, and in the end, unable to take it anymore, ran away in while the ceremony was still going on, only to come back after the crowds had dispersed and cried, cried and cried and cried until Newt had come and hugged the sorrow out of him.  The bottle of what he presumed was alcohol helped as well.

This year, this year it would be different.  He learned to hide his feelings from others, was determined not to cry, even though he himself would be behind the microphone this time.  Practically shaking, he stood up and made his way to the podium.

In the crowd, he spotted Newt gazing up at him, attentive, waiting, listening.  Taking a breath, struggling to keep his voice steady, he started with the propaganda he had been forced to write into his speech,

“On… On behalf of the Army, I thank those who sacrificed themselves for the good of our nation.  These were the brave fighters, these were friends, family, lovers.  They deserved… They all deserved better, all deserved to live, and yet with each cruel twist of fate, another one died anyways.”

He paused, partially for effect, partially to gather his thoughts a little.  True, these lines had been required, but still truth ran through them.  He continued on; this part had been his feelings, his thoughts,

“A year ago, just days before today, my friend was taken away from me –– forever.  Alby, the great Albert Einstein, a shucking genius, a guy who got along with everyone… He was one of the most amazing shanks I ever had the pleasure to meet, and I’m sure… I’m sure there are plenty of similar people, all genius in their own way, who died out there.  They were your friends, they were your sons, your brothers, your husbands, your fathers.  If you’ve been here, even if only as long as I have, you know someone who’s been claimed by Death.  

Today is a day for us to remember these lost ones, not that we’ve ever forgotten them, not for one second in our lives.  I don’t think it would be possible to ever forget them.  Today also do we remember those who have withstood torture to protect the lives of others.  It is a day to show our gratitude towards them.”

Minho felts something warm slide down his cheek, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep on going,

“Today is a day we mourn for them, we cry for them, we remember them, and we thank them, not that we would ever be able to thank them enough.

Today, let us remember the dead.”

Tears are running down his cheeks, but still he pauses, smiles, looks up into the sky, and whispers,

“Thank you, Alby, Gally, thank you for being the best friends I could ever ask for.”

 

_Did you try to live on your own,_

_When you burned down the house and home._

 

Now, staring at the painfully still body on the bed, Minho wonders if this will be another person he will have to say goodbye to too soon.

Minho always thought Newt looked almost divine when he was sleeping.  Even staring Death in the face, Newt is beautiful.  Maybe even more so than before.  His thick, long-fringed lashes tremble delicately against unblemished pale skin, and his lips are white from blood loss, like a ghost, except the ghost illusion was shattered by the shadows cast upon him and underneath his eyes.  Minho would have reprimanded him for staying up late into the night, probably reading some novel, had it not been in these… conditions.  Roughly cut golden curls are splayed out around his head, a glowing halo to perfectly match the angel.  Whoever was tending to him before must have doubted Netw was going to make it, because his arms were folded across his chest like those about to be buried.  Minho carefully unfolded his arms, and held one of his cold hands in his.

Cold hands.  So cold, almost lifeless.  They felt like death, except Minho refused to acknowledge this.

The light bulb flickered a little over head, but Minho paid them no heed.  His attention was focused solely on Newt, only Newt, never anyone else.  He tried to imitate Newt’s laugh in his head, the laugh like the sound of tinkling bells, but it just wasn’t the same.  He tried to reconstruct Newt’s smile with his mind, but it just wasn't the same.

Just like nothing would be the same without Newt.

Minho prayed, prayed to whichever god was out there that they would take pity on this angel.

And that god heard him.

 

_Did you stand too close to the fire?_

_Like a liar looking for forgiveness from a stone._

 

Newt was in a coma for about two weeks.

His leg would never heal, and he would always have a scar across his leg, but he would survive.  And he got a six month pardon, so that he wouldn’t have to fight.  It was okay, as okay as it could be, except the crippled Newt was ess talkative, less likeable, at least to other people.  To Minho, he was still perfect, just a little less upbeat, but Newt never ceased to smile at the other, never ceased to laugh, never ceased to kiss, as long as they were alone in the confinements of the medical tent, or later on in the barracks.  Newt wasn’t going to die, wasn’t going to leave, and that was all that mattered to Minho.

No, Newt definitely was not leaving anytime soon, but Minho would be.

It was about a month after Newt woke up, when the Army launched a mission to save a certain platoon, captured by the enemy, confirmed to be still alive by spies.

Gally’s platoon.

Minho was reluctant at first to leave Newt, but Gally, after all, was the only other surviving friend is his three man squad from two years back, and Minho could not lose him, especially when he had been handed the chance to save him.  He could not just ignore the pleas for help, could not just leave his friend to die in that godforsaken hellhole, even if it meant leaving Newt.

So he left.

He left with Newt’s blessings and a handwritten note in his pocket.

He never came back.

 

_When it's time to live and let die,_

_And you can't get another try._

 

When Minho had been declared MIA, Newt refused to believe it.  

He still held the hope that maybe, just maybe, Minho would still be alive, even after those twenty one fateful shots had been fired in his honor.  After all, it was not confirmed that he was dead.

But as time passed, that hope began to dwindle, until it all but faded away completely.  If one were to ask Newt’s friends, Thomas or Ben or Frypan, they would say that Newt had never been the same after that, that he would sometimes be perfectly fine, and then suddenly drift away, into a world of his own, and talk to a Minho that wasn’t there, or another ghost of his past.

Slowly, Newt started to heal.  When he turned eighteen, he quit the army, claiming that he could not fight properly with his faulty leg, could not pilot an airplane without putting others in danger.  He officers dismissed him, and he left.  He trained as a doctor, a therapist, his goal to heal as many as he had killed, not that he thought it would ever be possible.  When he turned nineteen, he started his own business, called it the Glade as an inside joke, became successful.  Veterans came to him, their minds so damaged that even the slightest twitch in the shadows would set them off.  Some of the veterans he recognised, some he didn’t.  Thomas had come; apparently his younger brother Chuck had been killed in battle, and tried to seek comfort as well as reassure him at the same time.  Gally had come; even though Minho had been a… a casualty, the mission was still a success.  Except Newt couldn't look him in the eye, could not bear to see and show the other the pain he was experiencing.

Slowly, Newt started to heal, but nothing could ever fill the gaping wound where his heart used to be.

Or so he thought.

 

_Something inside this heart has died,_

_You're in ruins…_

 

Newt had a very, very tight schedule; he was a popular therapist amongst soldiers and veterans, and with his relatable fighting experiences he could easily find what was wrong.

He in a bad mood; his last client had been a rude slinthead, and his next client was fifteen minutes late and counting.  He checked over the files again: Ki Hong Lee, an Asian guy with an eye patch covering half of his face, so that he could really see any of the distinct features on his face.  There were scars all over his arms, which would have made Newt sympathize over him had he not been so bloody late.  According to the files, he was twenty one, just a few months older than Newt himself, with a height of 1.78 meters.  Tall, but not as tall as Newt, who trumped him by one centimeter at 1.79 metres tall.  Still immersed in the files, he failed to notice the guy standing nervously outside his door, as though afraid to intrude, until he knocked on it loudly.

Newt looked up, and realised that this was the shank he had been studying for the last fifteen minutes, the shank who was late.

And then he realized, realized his client bore striking resemblance to someone he used to know…

 

_One, 21 Guns_

_Lay down your arms_

_Give up the fight_

_One, 21 Guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky_

_One, 21 Guns_

_Lay down your arms_

_Give up the fight_

_One, 21 Guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky_

 

For a moment, there's tense silence, and neither of them speaks.  Both are having a déjà vu of the time the first met in the Air Force barracks, when they just stared and stared and stated.   And then,

“Hi.”

“Welcome to the Glade.”

Just like before.  Just like all those years ago.

Newt didn’t really know how it happened, but one second there was a whole room between them, them next there was nothing that separated the two.  Newt could not recalled having hugged someone as tightly as he did now, as though afraid to let go, afraid that if he did let go the boy in front of him would cease to exist, cease to be there, cease to live.

“Newt.”

“Minho.”

“I missed you.”

“More than you could ever imagine.”

“Wanna bet?”

 

_You and I_

 

Amongst soldiers, there was love.  Love, like that of brothers, and love, like that of lovers.

Some were fortunate; both survived.  Some were less fortunate; neither lived.  

But perhaps the worst combination was when one made it, and the other didn’t.

Two of such lovers were Minho Park and Isaac Newton.  They met amidst the chaos, and found solace with each other, yet lost it in the midst of everything.

As soldiers, they lost each other forever.

But as people, they found each other once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Notice how I added Maze Runner quotes in XD
> 
> (Can you find them??)
> 
> Also, it might seem a bit weird that I put that part about one of them dying in the beginning when it turns out neither of them actually died, but thats just cause I was going to make it so that one died BUT THEN I realised that I promised to do a happy ending, so voila! Here you go!!
> 
> Hope you liked it :)


End file.
